


All these shining lights.

by skinnylittlered



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Actor Tom Hiddleston, Angst, Gen, Hiddleswift - Freeform, Swiddleston, Taylor Swift - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7313209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little bit of insight into the recent events...</p>
            </blockquote>





	All these shining lights.

_“Thou hast stolen that which after some few hours_ _  
Were thine without offence […]”_

                                      William Shakespeare, _Henry IV, part two_

 

 

_“…so, I’m worth a million bucks.”_

There’s a colourful array of magazines and newspapers, some glossy, other less so, more gossip rags than actually credible publications, sitting in front of him, projecting the artificial light that’s  making up for the lack of natural luminosity outside. He looks at them musingly, a definite thought yet to take shape in his mind, fleeting ruminations testing at the formerly turbulent, now eerily dormant waters of his intellect.

Perhaps, if he moves, this general sensorial inertia, this musty apathy that’s been keeping him in such a state of apparently interminable stupefaction for the past couple of days will fade. But he’s moved before, and it stayed. If anything, it seems to have gotten increasingly more benumbing. Perhaps, if he eats; yes, he should eat. Even more so, he _ought to_ eat. The shock of everything having come crashing down on him must have certainly left his body drained of all things nutritious, required to process and handle the situation accordingly, in a most fitting manner. But, come to think of it – he appears to have trouble recollecting the better part of the past forty-eight hours – he’s tried to eat before, too and it would have probably helped improve the situation a lot more had he actually managed not to retch everything he’d eaten right back after only having ingested it. Maybe if he sleeps on it, things will present themselves in a clearer way in the morning. He doesn’t even have to go to bed, as making use of his motor skills to such an extent seems beyond whatever scratch of bodily potency he might possess now. No, he can just lay on his side and close his eyes. The light can stay on, it’s not like sleeping in unfavourable circumstances would be such an element of novelty in his life. The light’s more than fine – it’s the darkness that frightens him. The light will stay on.

Luke lets himself fall on his side, no control in his action other than the push he gave to disbalance his rigid posture. He doesn’t remember falling, but he must have – his shoulder hurts and, after all, he’s lying on the ground now. All there’s left to do it close his eyes and wait for unconsciousness to become instilled in his person. But, as his eyelids press against each other over the sore eyeballs, Luke realises the gravity of his recent miscalculation.

There’s darkness behind the thin skin of his eyelids, too.

He jumps, as if burned with hot iron, all promise of tranquil unawareness shattered into incoherent fragments of hectic ideation pulsing against the thick bone of his skull, as if trying to snap it apart, as if there’s no more room for Luke Windsor in his body, as if he’s grown out of the skin covering his muscles, as if, my god, the son of a bitch jumped from the cliff, but made sure to latch onto his throat prior to doing it.

He’s read the posts, all of them, a few more than just once. Thousands of notes, anger frisbeed from one side to the other, pervasive disappointment, _he lied to us_ , _he’s a hypocrite_ , _I hate him_.

I hate him.

 _I hate him_.

Luke hates him.

Years of constant, assiduous work, the lights of Hollywood, so close, reduced to undeserved camera flashes. Run faster, run for longer. Eat less. Shed yourself in front them. Pull more, pull your weight and the weight of who you must become. Pull these weights, too, while you’re at it. You’re closer everytime. Eat more. Do yoga. Stay fit. Languid moves – your body is your craft. Train your mind, it must transcend itself. You’re not your own man. You’ll never be your own man. Morphing into every role he got, forever building and destroying versions of himself once they served their respective purposes, Tom Hiddleston seems to have forgotten who he was.

Years of constant, assiduous work projected onto the glossy covers, matte papers, more tabloids than anything, an array of colourful publications, all trampled under their feet, all at his feet.

This is all beneath him, he can wash his hands of this whole ordeal.

“ _No, Hiddleston, you’re worth less than the tabloid your name is splashed upon.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes: Who would’ve known that, after so long a while of knowing pretty much nothing of our boy Hiddles, I would, one day, just randomly type his name in the Google search bar and see it so closely linked with TayTay’s.
> 
> What an unexpected happening, indeed! 
> 
> Thank you and Welcome to @atinyfangirl and @marcusmumfords.
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovelies, and you stay golden! *Iced mint-lemonade for everyone. It’s over thirty degrees Celsius outside. I can’t fucking breathe.*


End file.
